Chains of Divinity

"So. A priestess, huh?" He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"Yes." The word carried volumes of concern.

"You worried?"

Lysara gave him a flat look. "Of course I'm worried, you idiot."

Elaris grinned. "Good. Just checking." His levity faded as he watched her continue pacing. "You're planning something, aren't you?"

"I won't stop the vision," she said finally. "But I will make sure it isn't useful." A small smirk played at her lips. "I'll give them exactly what they want—a revelation. But it will not be clear. It will not be direct. And it will not point to me."

Elaris leaned forward, intrigued. "You're going to make Orin look guilty."

"Not guilty." She raised an eyebrow. "Just... questionable."

"You're evil. I love it."

Lysara ignored him, focusing on her plan. "Divine visions are unpredictable, but if I slip my magic in just right, I can nudge the revelation. They'll see a battlefield, hazy and broken. A warrior standing amidst wreckage, his face unclear—but wearing armor marked with the crest of the gods."

The next evening, the ritual chamber hummed with divine energy. Candles flickered as the priestess knelt before the sacred altar, her white robes seeming to glow in the dim light. Lysara stood among the gathered leaders, her magic ready but carefully hidden.

The priestess inhaled sharply, her eyes blazing white. "I see... war." Her voice echoed strangely in the chamber. "A battlefield... drenched in blood."

Everyone listened in tense silence as she continued, "A warrior stands among the dead. He holds a sword. He has... armor... shining... but I... I cannot..."

"Who is it?" Orin leaned forward, his eagerness palpable. "Tell us!"

The priestess gripped the altar tighter, her body trembling. "His face is hidden... but... his armor..." She paused, drawing a ragged breath. "His armor is marked with the crest of the gods."

The room shifted uneasily. Whispers rose. Orin's crest was one of the few among the chosen warriors.

"So one of our own stands among the dead?" Dain's voice was carefully neutral.

"That means nothing." Orin's tension was visible now. "Many of us wear divine crests."

"And yet," Dain studied the priestess carefully, "it means something."

The vision broke. The priestess slumped forward, exhausted. Orin exploded immediately: "This is meaningless!"

But Dain didn't dismiss it so easily. "Is it? The gods did not show an enemy. They showed one of us standing on the battlefield."

"You think I betrayed us?" Orin's voice was dangerous.

Dain didn't answer immediately. He was thinking, weighing options, while Lysara kept her expression neutral. Inside, she felt satisfaction. The seed had been planted.

That night, Elaris found her again.

"You are terrifying, you know that?" His smirk was appreciative.

"What?"

"You didn't just avoid suspicion. You made Orin look bad without ever saying his name."

Lysara shrugged. "The gods work in mysterious ways."

"You are a god now, huh?"

She rolled her eyes but grew serious. "Just be ready for what happens next. Orin won't forget this."

In his chambers, Orin knelt before his divine symbols, his prayers more desperate than ever. The gods' silence felt heavier now, weighted with new meaning. His faith hadn't wavered—but it had changed, becoming something darker, more personal.

He would find the traitors. He would prove his loyalty. And if the gods wouldn't help him directly, he would become their instrument of vengeance himself.

The war was changing, becoming something more dangerous than mere battles. In the shadows of the fortress, truth and lies danced together, while faith twisted into something that even the gods might fear.